


The Underground Wizard

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Multi, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-17
Updated: 2008-06-04
Packaged: 2018-09-30 22:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10173419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Magic has been forgotten.  There is no Hogwarts, no wizard world, no sudden fame.  But what has been forgotten can be learned...even at so unlikely a place as Stonewall...





	1. The Paper Piano

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Author's note: This story contains child abuse. It is also probably full of Americanisms as my only scholarly experience is with American schools, but hopefully there won't be too many mistakes. This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

Chapter 1  
Harry was locked in his cupboard again. At least, his body was. His mind, however, was a universe away, riding upon the wispy taps of his fingers over a paper piano. He could almost see the music, like rivers of water splashing over the landscape of his mind in vivid colour. For the moment, he didn't even need to look at the carefully pencilled keys as he simply let his imagined tune flow out over the familiar sheet. At other times, he studied the drawn keys methodically, making sure he had the spacing right for his fingers while he studied from borrowed or copied music sheets.

Sometimes, when he let himself think about it, he knew it was kind of pathetic. He was practising on a drawing for a skill he would never be allowed to use. His time spent upon the bench of a real piano probably wouldn't add up to more than a single day out of the year since he had begun to practice. There had been the first glorious hours when the music teacher had offered to teach him. She had seen him hanging around the schoolroom piano, pushing gingerly at the keys so that they just gave barely a whisper of sound, and she had said that she could teach him if he was interested. She wouldn't even charge him because it would be extra credit. They would spend an hour after school two times a week.

He managed to keep the lessons a secret for all of one and a half weeks before Dudley found out. His aunt and uncle put a stop to it then. Apparently, his after school activities were cutting into his chore time. Since that day, he had begun his campaign to learn in secret. He stole minutes alone with the school piano, practising the finger exercises. One day, he traced the keys. He had tried drawing it from memory, but the proportions were off. It took him too long to get his fingers right again when he sat at the real piano, time he didn't have. He only traced a small part, but from that he was able to copy it over again and again until he had the entire length.

It was a bizarre hobby, he admitted to himself, to be a sort of underground pianist. But it was something to pass the time when he was alone in his cupboard, or hiding from Dudley and his gang, or stuffed into some dark, tight space after they caught him. Nobody could touch the music if it was inside his head, and a paper piano is easier to hide than a real one, also easier to replace. The music was his final sanctuary when there was none to be found outside his head.

“Boy!” The screech tore through his internal melody like a cat over a keyboard. He winced and then hurriedly folded up the piano and stuffed it under his thin mattress. Luckily, his aunt hadn't bothered to open the cupboard door to see what was keeping him. He hoped this was the first time she had called; it wouldn't be the first time he had completely zoned out within the world of music. Nervously, he pushed at the door. It was unlocked now and opened easily.

“Boy!” his aunt screeched again, her voice coming from the kitchen. 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia?” he asked obediently, trying for an air of innocence.

“What is taking you so long?” she demanded, “I knocked on your cupboard half an hour ago!”

“Sorry,” Harry answered, “I must have been asleep.” His aunt sniffed disdainfully. Harry wondered what she thought he could have been doing, locked up in the dark as he was.

“Get a move on making dinner,” she instructed, “And make sure not to burn it this time.” Not bothering to point out that he hadn't burned anything all week, he got to work.

Dinner was one of the many chores that his piano lessons had so threatened to distract him from. Then came washing up. Before and after were other little obligations his aunt came up with on a daily basis, and if there was nothing to clean she would insist he dust or sweep or scrub an already spotless room. These were the best times, the times when he could allow his mind to truly wander. If he kept a sharp eye out for where his aunt was, he could often get away with only pretending to do the job. After all, a spotless room isn't going to get any more spotless, no matter what his aunt seemed to think. There were, however, unfortunate risks to this method.

“Boy!” a deeper voice thundered, “I hear you've been slacking off!” That was why he had been locked in the cupboard in the first place, when his aunt caught him tapping his fingers over the porcelain tub he was supposed to be scrubbing. His aunt had rapped his knuckles sharply and sent him to his cupboard, and now his uncle was going to punish him. Harry swallowed hard and tried to escape into the song.

It didn't really work. It didn't stop the pain. But it did stop his uncle's voice from scalding so deeply. It stopped his uncle from really reaching him. Harry's body might hurt, Harry's body might be sobbing over his uncle's lap, Harry's voice might by crying with incoherent pleas for mercy, but that wasn't Harry himself. Harry was free, lost within notes and sound. Harry knew that without the music, he would probably go mad. Though sometimes he wondered if he wasn't already there.


	2. Ironing

  
Author's notes: Magic has been forgotten. There is no Hogwarts, no wizard world, no sudden fame. But what has been forgotten can be learned...even at so unlikely a place as Stonewall...  


* * *

Chapter 2

Most children dreaded the end of holidays. Harry didn't exactly look forward to school either, but facing the petty antics of his schoolmates and the drudgery of his classes was at least better than an endless round of chores, hiding from Dudley's gang, and being locked inside his cupboard. Best of all, school offered a chance for those stolen moments when he could slide his fingers over long white keys, ringing out clear notes that vibrated through the air and not just inside his head. He had not been able to touch a real piano for a couple of months. Usually the upcoming weeks until he could once again escape Privet Drive for hours each day was something to await with anticipation. This summer was slightly different.

“Hey, Freak,” his cousin said as he waddled into the room where Harry was busy ironing Dudley's uniforms. Harry cringed slightly at the sudden voice; he had become all to familiar lately with Dudley's new smelting stick, but it seemed his cousin had only come to torment him as his hands were empty.

“Just two more weeks until you go to that freak school,” Dudley continued, his voice gloating, “I hear parents only send their kids there because they don't love them enough to send them to a real school. It's full of freaks and gangsters.” Harry didn't bother to answer, concentrating on the ironing. Whatever Dudley was saying was bound to be lies anyway. At least, Harry was fairly certain that Stonewall High didn't allow caning or hanging students out of windows by their toes, or whatever else Dudley came up with. His cousin wasn't particularly imaginative but he had a large library of videos filled with guns and torture to draw from.

“Hey!” Dudley shouted suddenly, shoving Harry into the ironing board and nearly sending the whole thing to the floor, “Stop that! You're humming again, I hate it when you do that!” He, in fact, sounded rather frightened by it. Harry struggled to righten himself without burning anything on the iron. He hadn't even noticed that he had been humming but now, feeling slightly rebellious, he began to hum louder. The small, slightly melancholic tune filled the air with a vibrant life of its own. Dudley covered his ears, his eyes wide and frightened by the sound.

Harry didn't really understand why, but sometimes the music in his head got out. He hummed it under his breath or sang in soft, crystal notes that had no words. And when the music got out, things seemed to happen. Now, as he hummed, the clothes upon the ironing board began to tremble, as though a large wind was sweeping through the room. They rose up into the air and whipped about, the cloth fluttering as it arranged itself, almost as though by chance, into the figure of a person. 

“Stop it, stop it!” Dudley screamed, watching in horror as his school uniform began to dance slowly, the dance of a memory or a ghost of long ago. For just a moment, the clothing seemed transformed into the phantom image of a white gown and a blue suit, dancing sadly and silently in slow circles. Harry watched as though it wasn't him doing this, as though the music had only slipped through him like a vessel to fill the room and bring back the ghosts of those long dead. For an instance, Harry was even sure that he knew who these people were.

“Stop it!” Dudley screamed again, and then he leapt at Harry, desperate to make the sound stop. Harry screamed when he felt a sharp piercing pain envelope his stomach. He tried to roll away from the pain but a large weight seemed to have settled over him, squashing him down as a nauseating stench of burning filled the room. Unnoticed by the boys, the clothes hung for a short moment longer in the air before fluttering slowly to the ground. In one final act of the music, or perhaps from the clear note of Harry's scream, a final wind arose throwing Dudley's substantial weight off of Harry and into the wall. At last Harry was able to roll away from the blistering heat of the iron, curling up over his singed stomach still sobbing in agony.

“What in the world is going on in here!” a voice bellowed through the room like a fog horn and Harry's uncle stumbled through the doorway, his face red with exertion. He was followed closely by Mrs. Dursley, who slipped past her husband to Dudley's side. 

“What have you done to my Dudykins?” she screeched towards where Harry lay huddled up. Dudley was rolled up into a large, squishy ball, whimpering to himself despite the fact that he hadn't really been hurt even from the sudden wind.

“He was doing it again,” Dudley finally managed to get out, “He was humming.” His parents looked at each other in concerned confusion. Then Petunia gave another screech. She had finally noticed the iron sitting on the floor and still hot, burning a dark hole into the carpet. She crossed the room in a bound to pick it up and unplug it.

“Boy!” his uncle bellowed furiously, and he grabbed his nephew to turn him over. Harry's only response was to try and curl up again, instinctively protecting his wound from being displayed. His uncle growled softly in annoyance, finally picking the boy up and carrying him into the bathroom.

“He was humming,” Dudley kept insisting, his eyes wide with fright. His mum looked over the room, her face twisted up in distaste. All of the ironing would need to be redone, the entire room stunk horribly of burnt carpet and flesh, there was a hole in her carpet, there could have even been a fire if they hadn't come quick, and it looked like her useless nephew had gotten himself hurt, which meant she'd likely have to deal with all the mess herself.

“Come along, pumpkin,” she said finally, pulling her still hysterical son out of the room and down the stairs, where she proceeded to calm his nerves with sweets. They heard an occasional scream coming from the bathroom while Vernon attempted to deal with the burn, but they were so used to that kind of sound that it was easy to tune it out. Later, when she and Vernon sat down with Dudley together and he told them the whole tale, they were able to assure him that it was all just a trick that Harry had played, and see how Dudley had gotten Harry back in the end? But when they were alone they still worried.

“Do you see what that freak is doing to our Dudders?” Vernon growled, “Dancing clothes indeed. We will be well rid of him when he goes to that school. It'll be worth losing that money to have him stay in the dorms; the less we see of that freak the better.”

“He will still need to come back on the weekends,” Petunia reminded him, suddenly worried that Vernon had changed his mind after all, “I won't have him slacking off at that school and getting out of chores.”

“Don't worry, Pet,” Vernon agreed, “We don't want him to go and forget his place.”

A floor below them, locked up once more in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry did his best to quiet his whimpers. His uncle's version of first aid had been to first dunk Harry into the tub and spray the burn with cold water, then to spread some burn cream on it from the first aid kit. It still hurt horribly, and looked even worse. His uncle hadn't bothered with a bandage, mumbling something about burns needing air to heal. When his aunt had seen the burn there had been a short, brief mention of seeing a doctor, but his uncle had convinced her it wasn't really as bad as it looked. Harry didn't know how it looked, he was still afraid to look.

Unable to sleep because of the pain, he shifted slowly until he could fold out his paper piano. His fingers fumbled at first, his burn aching too much for him to feel out the music properly, but as the tune began to develop inside his head it came easier to his fingers. He started humming again without even realizing it, a hum almost too soft to be heard. The tune ran softly out of him in time to the tapping of his fingers, a tune of agonizing pain and fear and sorrow. A tune of regret that somehow recaptured in his mind the image of the dancing ghosts. As the pain flowed away from him into the song, it shifted, becoming calmer, more soothing. Finally, as though it had turned into a lullaby he fell back onto his mattress, his piano forgotten, and as the last of the notes whispered around the cupboard he fell into a deep sleep. By the morning, his burn was a rough scar in the general shape of an iron. By the time the week was out, even the scar had faded until it looked at least a year old, but it never quite left him.


	3. Setting Out

  
Author's notes: Magic has been forgotten. There is no Hogwarts, no wizard world, no sudden fame. But what has been forgotten can be learned...even at so unlikely a place as Stonewall...  


* * *

Chapter 3

When Harry awoke to only a faint twinge coming from yesterday's vivid burn, he was more frightened than relieved. There was another sign of his freakishness, and he knew he would be in trouble if his aunt or uncle found out. They might even decide to burn him all over again, because it wasn't natural for him to heal so quickly. He would just have to fake the pain and hoped no one made him take off his shirt. In the mean time, he could enjoy being nearly pain free for once in his life.

In fact, the following week took a turn for the better. His aunt, still assuming he was badly hurt, let him out of most of his usual chores. His uncle, also supposing he was already in pain, didn't bother to punish him further. Dudley, meanwhile, was so terrified from his experience that he avoided Harry like the plague. All Harry had to do was hunch himself up and whimper pathetically when anyone was around and he was left alone. Of course it didn't last.

With only one week left in August, the new school year loomed larger than ever. Mrs. Dursley had managed to iron and pack away all of Dudley's school uniform as well as everything else the school had insisted he needed and quite a few things it didn't. Harry's own valise consisted of an old suitcase with a broken latch, Dudley's old clothes dyed an awful splotchy grey colour, and a stack full of ratty third hand books that were at least one edition out of date from the ones on the list. It looked as though Harry would be arriving at school looking like some third world orphan wrapped up in elephant skin. 

The approaching school year was a maelstrom of high strung emotions on his aunt's part, the usual gruff annoyance on his uncle's, and vapid indifference coupled with occasions of unpleasant tantrums on Dudley's. It also meant the usual end of year lectures from his aunt and uncle. Harry was to remember that he was a freak, that he was lucky to have been taken into such a good home, and that if he made up lies about his family he'd be severely punished. This year they were coming down on him especially strong, because this was the first year he was going to a school that would hold him overnight. Happily for Harry, punishments towards the end of the holidays tended to be mild; he supposed they didn't want anyone to see him wincing a bunch and get the wrong idea. Unfortunately, this also meant his uncle wanted to have another look at his burn.

“Well,” his uncle said, surprisingly cheerful after he got Harry to take his shirt off, “This has healed up nicely.” Harry supposed that his uncle forgave the freakishly fast healing because of the nearness of the school year. Though he did get a light paddling for 'faking' to get out of chores. Then Harry's short vacation was over with interest as his aunt packed and repacked her son's boxes, though she didn't make Harry do the ironing again. The final days before Dudley was to be shipped off were total chaos. His aunt repacked everything three times, the first time because she was afraid his clothes would get stuffy and needed to be aired, the second time because she forgot to put back one of his shirts which, according to her meticulous packing system, should have gone at the bottom, and the third time because Dudley, in the fit of one of his tantrums, screamed that he wouldn't go if he couldn't bring his television and tore all of his uniforms and such out and strew them about his room. His uncle finally managed to console him by getting him a pocket sized television that could easily be smuggled in and hidden. In the meantime, Harry was left with the task of putting everything back once his aunt finished the ironing. By that day, Dudley had completely forgotten his fear of Harry and was taking every chance he could to remind Harry about the freak school he had to go to, where all the bad children had to go because nobody loved them. Personally, Harry thought he'd rather go to Stonewall High than to Smelting, especially if Dudley was going to be there, but he wisely kept silent. 

Sometimes, Harry wished that there was a third option, like some secret school just perfect for him. The night before both boys were to leave for their schools, Harry had a very strange dream. He dreamed that an owl came to his cupboard with a letter, a letter just for Harry, that invited him to a magical school. The school was full of people in black cloaks who waved sticks around like batons and did wondrous magic. Harry had his own stick and he used it to turn Dudley into a pig. Then he flew off on a broom stick, flying away into the clouds were other children waited, cheering him on. Finally he woke up, still smiling, until a sound like thunder thumped down the stairs, knocking dust and spiders over him. Outside, it began to rain.

That morning, Harry's aunt was especially critical over how he cooked the breakfast. She didn't approve of the careful, arm's length way he'd been handling the frying pan ever since the iron burn. It was even worse than Dudley's birthday. Dudley himself looked rather green, as though it had only just occurred to him what all this fuss and shopping and packing was about. He only managed to eat a plate and a half, rather than his usual three. His mother cooed over him in her motherly, annoying way, a sure way to set Dudley off on a tantrum, while his father thumped him on the back in a proud manner. Harry himself managed to choke down everything that Dudley didn't eat, though he was feeling a little green himself. He had never been anywhere, really, except to school and to Mrs. Figg's house. Everything Dudley had been telling him about Stonewall High came to mind and Harry shuddered. To calm himself, he began a frantic tapped out tune on the table's edge. Luckily, no one was paying him any mind.

After breakfast was the worst bit. Emotions were high, his aunt was already in tears over her ickle Dudleykins, and Dudley was taking out his sudden misgivings by whapping anything that came near him with his smelting stick. This included Harry when he was instructed to drag Dudley's things downstairs. Finally, the morning was over and Harry was left to watch as his aunt, uncle, and cousin took off in a car loaded down with everything Dudley had insisted he needed, including the hand held television.

Harry was given general directions on how to reach the school and left to fend for himself, dragging his broken suitcase down the street.

Given a choice, he would have gone back into the house after they had left and spent a moment of precious free time to just breathe before he set out. As it was, they had locked him out when they left, so there was nothing to do but to set off himself. He had only made it down towards the end of Privet Drive when Mrs. Figg came out to pear at him over her fence.

“Where on Earth are you going like that?” she asked, sounding rather bewildered, “You aren't running away from home, are you boy?”

“I'm going to my new school,” he explained and then, when she continued to give him that concerned look he added, “It isn't that far, really.” He held up his paper of directions as though to prove it. Mrs. Figg tsked over it, shaking her head with disapproval.

“You can't walk all the way there,” she insisted, “It would take half the day!”

“Then I had better go on,” Harry answered, frowning, “I'm supposed to get there by eleven.” Mrs. Figg hesitated for a moment, her long bony fingers rubbing absently at his instruction sheet. Finally she got a determined look to her eyes.

“Then I had better take you,” she said firmly. When Harry tried to protest, she only stood firmer than ever and finally settled the matter by refusing to return his directions sheet. With that taken care of, she led him back into her house so that she could get ready. 

Harry was very familiar with Mrs. Figg's house; he had spent numerous hours there whenever the Dursleys had to go out and they didn't want to let him have the run of the house. Though it tended to be dull and smelled funny it still beat being locked into his cupboard, and Mrs. Figg was always nice to him, even if she did seem just the slightest bit over fond of her cats. 

Mrs. Figg finally came back to join him wearing what seemed to be a pair of goggles as well as a large hat tied under her chin with a vibrant scarf. It looked almost as though she intended to take him flying rather than for a drive. She also sported an enormous sack that she tried to pass off as 'my purse'. It was purple with orange flowers sewn onto it and smelled just as off as the rest of her house. It was also stuffed full with bits of tissue falling out the top. Harry even thought he heard a muffled 'mew' coming from inside.

“Aha, ready!” she proclaimed, and led him excitedly towards her car, which turned out to be a very old looking contraption with no top that had been being used to hold potted plants in her garage. Before they could leave the plants had to be removed, leaving only a little bit of dirt behind and the occasional leaf, and her driveway was mostly cleared of debris and cats. Harry began to wonder how she got about to do her shopping, and if he wouldn't have been better off walking, directions or no directions.

“Off we go!” Mrs. Figg declared, after Harry had shoved his case down at his feet, there not being room in the back. The car let out a ferocious bang, belched a lot of smoke, and began to hum softly. The hum soothed Harry. It was music, in its own way, and he was able to use it to tune out everything else. He didn't even mind, much, when Mrs. Figg tuned into a station offering what sounded like severe abuse to an accordion, accompanied by the strangling of a saxophone. The hum of the car enveloped him, the wind whipped at his hair threatening to steal his glasses right off his face, and the rain that had been coming off and on all morning failed to fall. He couldn't think of a better way to face his new school.


	4. Stonewall

  
Author's notes: Magic has been forgotten. There is no Hogwarts, no wizard world, no sudden fame. But what has been forgotten can be learned...even at so unlikely a place as Stonewall...  


* * *

Chapter 4

Despite having left at eight in the morning, they didn't reach the school until nearly eleven. This was due in part to the distance they had to travel, but also because it turned out Mrs. Figg was not particularly good with directions. She always confused her rights with her lefts, tended to take traffic laws as mere suggestions, and seemed inclined to lean towards the middle of the road. This led to Harry spending much of the drive with his eyes closed, under the theory that if he can't see it, it won't hit him. This did not help with his ability to remind Mrs. Figg when to turn.

All the same, they finally managed it when Harry spied a mini van piled high with chests and filled with red haired children at a stop light. Guessing that they must be off to school as well, and not knowing of any other schools in the area, Harry suggested they follow the van. Ten minutes later they were pulling down a long country road and twenty minutes after that through the gates to a large stone structure. As soon as he was no long preoccupied with finding the place, all of Harry's fears and uncertainties returned. When it finally came time to get out of the car, something he had been wishing for ever since the third mailbox in a row Mrs. Figg had just barely missed, he felt suddenly reluctant. Mrs. Figg seemed just as uncertain, as though she wasn't sure what was supposed to happen now.

“Do you think I should go in with you, dear?” she asked, looking doubtfully up at the cold grey building. Harry looked at the way the car was parked, half up on the curb, and then at the sign it had just managed to miss hitting that proclaimed no parking in loud, bold letters.

“I think I will be all right from here,” he assured her, “Thank you for the ride. Um...are you sure of the way back?”

“Never mind that,” she said, “I'll manage. I always manage somehow.” Harry didn't feel nearly so sure as she seemed to be, but there was nothing left but to drag out his suitcase and wave goodbye. She smiled at him in that kindly, concerned smile she always seemed to have when near him and he wondered if there was something more he was supposed to do.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Figg,” he said again, “Thanks for the ride.”

“You are a sweet dear,” she answered, her voice oddly sad. Harry suddenly wondered what it would be like if he belonged to her. Like if she was his aunt. Perhaps Mrs. Figg was wondering the same thing because she made half a move as though she meant to hug him, but pulled back at the last second. All around them, other children were saying goodbye to their parents. The older students were already greeting old friends. No one was in any hurry to enter the school; it was early yet. Then Mrs. Figg was starting up the car. It banged once causing heads to turn and a few giggles, and then she managed to back off the curb and turn it around without hitting anything. Soon she was gone in a puff of smoke and Harry was alone again.

It was only when he had turned once more to face the school that it occurred to him he didn't really know what he was supposed to do. He held tightly to his broken handle and tried to listen in to the nearest group of students. They were the ones with red hair from the minivan, and there seemed to be an awful lot of them. Harry wondered how they had all managed to fit into one vehicle.

“Come along,” one of the older boys said importantly, “We don't want to be late. Us prefects are supposed to meet before the feast.” Harry began to relax as he watched the family. They didn't look as though they were bad, or as though their parents didn't love them; they were just loud and rowdy. Two who seemed to be identical kept mimicking the first who had spoken, whose name appeared to be Percy, or Prissy depending upon who was talking to him. Percy kept flashing a badge pinned to his chest, ignoring his brothers with lofty patience. They didn't seem to approve of him being a prefect.

The fourth boy was being hovered over by a large woman in the same sort of manner his aunt always seemed to get with Dudley, but with a lot less hysterics and more scolding. The youngest in the family was a girl, which gave Harry a start. For some reason, after everything Dudley had been saying, he had gotten the impression it was an all boy school. Maybe because he had a hard time imaging girls as being bad and unloved. Not that he knew any girls, and those he met at school could certainly be unpleasant.

“It's not fair,” he heard her saying, while her father assured her that she would be going next year.

“What's not fair is you have another week before classes start,” the boy being mothered mumbled. Suddenly, Harry's view of the family was blocked by the solid body of a blond haired boy.

“Aren't you at the wrong school?” he demanded, smirking down at Harry, “The baby school is back that way.” Harry scowled up at him, clutching at his suitcase nervously.

“Why?” Harry demanded, “Did you want me to walk you there?” The boy laughed in response, looking not quite friendly, but not as intimidating either.

“You've got a mouth on you, I'll give you that,” he said, and then he held out his hand, saying, “Draco Malfoy.” Harry eyed his hand dubiously. The boy was wearing a well tailored uniform with a green vest. Whatever Harry's aunt had said, he knew that his grey dyed clothes weren't going to cut it. He couldn't see any reason why a boy like Malfoy would want to be friends with a boy like him. Deciding it was too soon to make judgements on people, he accepted the hand slowly. Malfoy's grip was tight but not crushing. 

“Did you come with that old biddy?” he asked, looking contemptuously over his shoulder as though he still expected to see traces of her burned into the asphalt.

“Yes,” Harry answered, feeling like he should defend her but not knowing what to say.

“Bit of a fright, isn't she?” Malfoy asked in a friendly tone, “Not a relation I hope.” 

“No,” Harry answered, and then, “She really is nice.” Malfoy laughed again, as though Harry had said something completely ridiculous. Harry began to edge away from him. Unfortunately, his broken latch chose that moment to give and his suitcase swung open, sending all of its contents to the ground.

“Ew!” Malfoy exclaimed, “What are those!” He lifted up one of Harry's grey shirts and held it high by the tips of his fingers, as though they held a lingering bad smell. Harry blushed bright red as he tried to grab it back, but Malfoy swung it away from his reach. “These should be burned!” he added. Harry quickly stuffed the rest of his clothes and books back into the case, pushing it shut before he tried to take back his shirt again. Malfoy only waved it higher.

“Kindergarten baby, dressed like a gravy,” he sang maliciously. Suddenly, the shirt was snatched right out of Malfoy's hands from behind.

“That's enough,” the tall boy with the flashing badge declared, his voice filled with authority. Malfoy glared at him but backed off to join a tall thin woman who seemed to have been looking for him. Percy the prefect handed Harry back his grey shirt with all the air of returning stolen jewels. Suddenly the two identical red heads were dancing around them.

“Prefect Percy to the rescue!” one exclaimed.

“Making the school steps safe for first years everywhere!” the other added. The stared down at Harry for a moment, suddenly doubtful.

“Er,” the first said and the other finished saying, “You are a first year, aren't you?”

“I'm eleven!” Harry exclaimed.

“Right, right, sorry,” they said, almost as though they took turns talking, “We only meant, well, you could have been a second year, right?” Harry shrugged. 

“Our brother's new here too,” the twins continued and one said, “I'm Fred by the way, and this is George,” to which the other responded, “What! No way, I'm Fred and you're George!” This led to a very enthusiastic argument that left Harry uncertain whether he should be annoyed still or amused.

“Come on,” Percy interrupted them, “We need to go in. I'm going to be late!” then, after saying goodbye to his parents and sister one last time, Percy took off by himself for the school. Harry stayed where he was, still not knowing where to go. Everyone else seemed to already know. People were carrying suitcases up to the school, more students than ever were hurrying up and down the stone steps, and a lot of cars were already pulling away.

Finally, he must have caught the attention of the large, motherly woman because she left off rubbing her son's nose and came over to him.

“Lost, dear?” she asked in a kindly manner, “Where are your parents?” Harry just shrugged, not wanting to get into a long explanation that began with 'they're dead' and ended with 'my crazy neighbour drove me here' so he finally said, “I was dropped off.” The woman frowned slightly, as though she couldn't conceive of anyone simply being left off at the front steps, but she soon smiled kindly at him.

“First year?” she asked, and Harry nodded. She waved a hand towards where the red headed boy was talking with his sister and said, “My Ron's a first year too. Maybe you'll be in the same house!” Harry smiled faintly and nodded again, though he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Well, first you'll want your things to be brought up to the front hall,” she said, and then she turned to see her husband just finishing with stacking several chests and suitcases precariously high upon a wheeled cart.

“Oh, Arthur, wait here,” she instructed to him, taking up Harry's small suitcase, “Just add this to the top there.” Her husband eyed this one final load as though he expected it to send the entire tower falling, but somehow it managed to balance.

“Er,” Harry said, watching his only possessions in all the world being slowly wheeled up a ramp towards the front doors.

“Now then,” the woman continued, not seeming to notice, but then she frowned slightly saying, “I don't believe I've caught your name.”

“Harry,” Harry answered, “Harry Potter.” Her faced squinched up for a moment as she considered this.

“Harry Potter,” she murmured to herself, “That sounds familiar...” But then she smiled a bright smile, shrugging as though to say it doesn't matter. “I'm Molly Weasley,” she said, and then, “Ron! Come and say hello to Harry here!” A bit quieter she said to Harry, “We've been a bit worried about him. He's not good at making friends, you see.”

“Mum!” the boy called Ron exclaimed, obviously close enough to have heard her last comment. Harry gave the boy a cautious smile and half a shrug. Then the twins were back, as well as their father, and then everyone was saying goodbye in a frantic sort of last minute way. The twins finally escaped their mother to run up the stairs again, calling back over their shoulders last minute partings, finally promising to send their little sister a toilet seat and earning a scandalized cry from their mother. Mrs. Weasley gave Ron one last hug and then surprised Harry completely when she enveloped him too. He was too surprised to do anything more than stand stiff and rigidly, but he felt slightly cold when she let go.

“You don't want your old mother hanging around on your first day of school,” she said, her eyes slightly teary, and she ushered both boys towards a side walkway Harry hadn't noticed before now, giving last minute instructions to behave interspersed with laments as to how much her boy had grown. It was oddly reminiscent to Mrs. Dursley's hysterics, yet somehow less theatrical and more comforting, though Ron's face was beat red by the time she started back to their minivan, hauling the youngest Weasley with her. Ron's father took longer to go as he walked them partly around the school, until they could see a large group of students huddled.

“There,” he said, “You'll be okay now.” He gave Ron a stiff hug, which Ron endured, and then gave Harry a pat on the back, though Harry cringed slightly in response. Then he stuffed his hands in his pockets, nodded goodbye, and took off again. Both boys stood where they had been left, not quite ready to enter the rowdy mob of students that made up the first years. Finally, just for something to say, Harry said, “Why are we coming around here?”

“It's tradition,” Ron answered, looking slightly nervous, “We enter through the main doors and then we get sorted into our houses. No one knows how the sorting is done. Fred keeps on about some magic hat, but I'm pretty sure he's joking.” He didn't look certain though, not in that moment, and Harry didn't blame him. A strange feeling had come over him, here in this new school that would soon define their lives. He suddenly remembered his dream.

“I dreamed this was a magic school,” he said without thinking, “with batons that did spells and everyone wore pointy hats.” Then he cringed inwardly, wondering what had made him say such things. Now Ron would think he was stupid, or batty, or both. But Ron just shrugged in understanding.

“I dreamed that all the teachers were ogres, and if you got a question wrong, they hit you with their club. Everyone has dreams like that before school starts.” Finally, Harry began to feel less nervous. Together, the boys walked slowly down the side walk to join the rest of their year.


	5. Sorting

  
Author's notes: Magic has been forgotten. There is no Hogwarts, no wizard world, no sudden fame. But what has been forgotten can be learned...even at so unlikely a place as Stonewall...  


* * *

Chapter 5

To take his mind off his nerves, Harry took a moment picture the old schoolroom piano in his head. The white, yellowing keys, the slick black bars, the glossy finish and the burnished pedals. It sat waiting, holding within its strings every song in all the universe. The image calmed him. He could be like the piano, sitting silent but holding all the potential in the world. The closer they got to the other students, the harder it was to maintain an aura of silent calm. All around them a cacophony of excitement and nerves buzzed like a hornets nest.

“Has anyone seen a toad?” a girl with long bushy hair shouted, dragging about a smaller, chubby boy who didn't seem to know quite how he had gotten there, “Neville's lost his!”

“Are we allowed pets,” he heard another girl whispering to her friend, “I could have brought my rabbit.”

“If I had brought a toad,” a derisive voice proclaimed, “I'd lose it as quickly as possible too.” Harry turned his head and saw Malfoy again, this time flanked by two other boys like bodyguards; they would have made even Dudley seem like a frail, refined child.

“Do you think we're allowed pets?” Ron asked Harry in a low tone, “I've got a rat at home, and I'm afraid mum will forget to feed him. She doesn't think much of rats.”

“Maybe there's a book of rules we can find,” Harry suggested, which sounded much better than 'I have no idea about anything with this school.' Before he could think of anything else to say, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. The largest man Harry had ever seen had come out of a side door.

“I've heard of him,” Ron whispered, “That's Hagrid the grounds keeper. Charlie says he's great with animals.” Harry nodded, still eyeing the man nervously. He had an unkempt, wild look about him, like some storybook giant. 

“All right,” the man giant said, beaming down upon them, “Welcome to yer first day at Stonewall High. Everyone follow me.” Everyone did, in a huddled, nervous mass, all the way around a corner and towards a large stone arch. Hagrid stopped just before they reached it.

“It's tradition, yeh see,” Hagrid began to explain, “Everyone just go on, under the arch and up the path. Professor McGonagall 'll tell yeh what ter do next.” He stood back, looking down at them expectantly. There was a short moment of confusion when the students at the back started forward but the ones in the front stayed frozen. Finally, they sorted themselves out and somehow came out into two straight lines. Harry and Ron were almost at the very end.

Harry stared up at the arch as they passed under it. It was smooth stone and didn't seem particularly interesting or notable, and he couldn't quite see what the big deal was about passing under it. As they walked down the path in silence, a sick fear began to settle over his stomach. He got a feeling like forgetting to study for an exam; suppose it turned out he wasn't supposed to be here at all? Perhaps this wasn't even Stonewall High, but some different school. But no, the man Hagrid had called it that. Perhaps his aunt and uncle didn't actually sign him up for this school; maybe that was just their way of getting rid of him, like some modern day version of Hansel and Gretel. What would he do if he got up there to be sorted and they told him he had to leave? He bit his lip, determined not to cry.

“I reckon I'll be a Griffin,” Ron whispered to him. Harry gave him a bewildered stare, his fingers tapping nervously against his legs in a flurried tune.

“All my brothers have been,” Ron continued, not seeming to notice Harry's confusion, “Though I suppose Raven isn't so bad. What do you think?”

“Er...me too,” Harry answered vaguely.

“Well,” Ron continued, “Better to be a raven than a serpent, anyway. Though imagine being stuck in the badger house.” Ron gave a short shudder. All this talk about animals was confusing Harry. Just what sort of school was Stonewall High, a school for veterinarians? Ron couldn't seem to stop talking, though he wasn't alone in this. Hushed whispers could be heard up and down the line, and Harry distinctly heard someone mumbling to herself about a Stonewall History, apparently a book of some sort. Whoever it was seemed very excited about finally passing under the arch.

“How do you suppose they sort us?” Ron asked, “I reckon it has something to do with the personality form they had our parents fill out. Kinda dumb really; if you want a real idea of what someone is like, don't ask their mum.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, growing more nervous than ever. He had never heard about that form; suppose the Dursleys didn't bother to fill it out? Would they even be able to sort him? Or worse, what if they wrote out all bad things. He'd be stuck into the worst house for sure. Then suddenly a tall stone building was looming over them.

“This is the feast hall,” Ron whispered, “I've been here before.” Everyone stopped once they had entered a tall, open room. Before them were huge wooden doors, like the doors to a fortress.

In front of the doors a tall, strict looking woman was standing in a grey dress with her hair tied back in a bun. She looked very severe, peering over her glasses at them. When the last of the students had entered the building, she began to speak.

“Welcome to Stonewall High,” she said, just as Hagrid had but her voice was much more polished and a bit less friendly. “We may not be a fancy boarding school like, but we have our own, grand history that isn't to be looked down on. In a moment, you will be sorted into your houses. These are Dorens house, generally known as griffins after their mascot, Cloggs house, known as ravens, Huffins house, known as badgers, and Slythins house, known as serpents. Each house has its own history, its own strengths. Your house will be like your family while you are here; you will eat with them, sleep with them, and have classes together. You can gain points for your house, as well as lose them. At the end of the year, the house with the most points wins the house cup.”

Harry began to relax slightly. Finally, someone was explaining everything. So it wasn't a school for veterinarians after all. He felt very relieved, as the only animals he had ever been around were his uncle's sister's bulldogs, who weren't particularly friendly towards Harry.

“Now, when the doors are opened, walk on inside to the front and wait for your name to be called,” McGonagall continued, “You will walk up to the podium where you will be told your house name. Hagrid?” Suddenly the man giant was back, pushing through all the students. With a huge key that had been hanging under his shirt, he unlocked the massive wooden doors, and pulled. They swung open easily, revealing a large banquet hall. Four long tables filled it, already seating the older students. A thousand faces turned towards them, and Harry distinctly heard one voice mumble, “Blimey, how many of them are there? We're never going to get to eat.” Harry swallowed. McGonagall went first, leading them between the middle two tables in long strides. The other first years entered more reluctantly, some staring in open awe at the massive ceiling, painted to resemble a night sky.

At the front of the room was another table where the professors sat. Ron must have been relieved, Harry thought; there wasn't an ogre among them. At the very centre, in front of the table stood an old man with a long white beard. He was wearing some odd sort of robes, probably as traditional as walking under the arch. He had unrolled a large scroll. Professor McGonagall unrolled an identical looking one and in a loud, clear voice called the first name: “Abbot, Hannah.”

A timid looking girl in a neat dress approached nervously until she stood before the man with the beard. He smiled kindly down at her, but she seemed too nervous to smile back.

“Huffins!” he called out to the hall. A table to Harry's right cheered, and she made her way to it at a relieved run. The list went on. Ron mumbled something to Harry about always being last, in the W's. They saw the bushy haired girl put into Dorens, as well as the toad boy. Malfoy was put into Slythins, not particularly surprising. Everyone at that table had a slightly cold look to them. Then two twins named Patel were sorted and Harry began to grow nervous again; his name was coming up soon. He was so nervous he began to hum under his breath in a jittery tune. Then, at last came “Pugger, Adam” and Harry let out a small gasp. Perhaps, he thought as a tall, skinny boy was sorted into Cloggs, it was spelled with an o. But after him came Amelia Rails. Harry swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He wasn't going to be called. 

“What was your name again?” Ron asked him as the two professors went further and further down the list, until only a small handful of students remained.

“Harry,” he whispered back in a weak voice, “Harry Potter.” Before Ron could say anything else, his name was being called. He gave Harry an apologetic, nervous smile and walked up.

“Dorens,” the old man proclaimed, and Ron went to join his brothers. There were only three students left then, besides Harry, and then there were none, and still Harry was standing there feeling pale and small. He wondered if it was too late to try and hide beneath a table. Professor McGonagall made a move as to role up the scroll when she glanced over and saw him standing there. The old man stared at him too, looking vaguely troubled though still kindly. All around him from the tables, a wave of whispers swept about the hall. The old man motioned him to come forward.

Harry did so slowly, his legs feeling like lead. When he finally reached the old man, he felt that it was a great achievement that he hadn't collapsed yet to the floor. The man bent over slightly, to be more on his level.

“And what is your name?” he asked.

“Harry Potter,” Harry managed to get out. The man blinking, taking on the same, almost remembering look that had come over Mrs. Weasley before he too shrugged past it to look over his list. He ran his finger over the names with a long, whispy motion. Harry felt his face heating up. He already knew he wasn't going to find him. To his surprise, however, the long finger paused, and tapped a name on the list.

“Ah, here we are,” he said, smiling down at Harry, “It seems there was a slight problem with your paperwork, something that wasn't filled out. We didn't think you were coming.”

“Paperwork?” Harry asked, almost going weak with relief. His name was listed. The old man looked down at him thoughtfully.

“We don't have you sorted yet,” he explained in a low voice so only Harry could hear, “It's highly unusual but...is there any house you would like to be in?”

“Er...Dorens,” Harry answered. Ron was in Dorens. Dumbledore smiled agreeably, and then to the hall at large he announced, “Harry Potter to be in Dorens!” The Dorens table gave its usual cheer, and then the rest of the tables cheered as well because the sorting was finally done. Harry rushed over to his new table, and slid into place next to Ron, who gave him a shy grin.

“There,” he said, “I just knew you'd be a griffin.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, and then large platters of food were being brought out. The feast could finally begin.


	6. Upset

  
Author's notes: Magic has been forgotten. There is no Hogwarts, no wizard world, no sudden fame. But what has been forgotten can be learned...even at so unlikely a place as Stonewall...  


* * *

Chapter 6

Harry was no stranger to large quantities of food. Between Dudley and his uncle, he saw volumes engulfed every day that could easily fill three times their number. What Harry couldn't quite seem to grasp was that all of this food, good food that made his mouth water in anticipation, was his to eat as he pleased.

Now that he was seated, having been sorted and accepted, a good deal of tension had left him and his appetite had made its appearance with a roar. For a long moment, all he could do was stare at the feast laid out before him.

“Well go on,” Ron said through a full mouth, nudging Harry with his elbow. Then Harry made a grab for everything in reach, filling his plate to the brim. It was good food, far better than the junk food Dudley always wanted, or the cold leftovers when he was being punished. All the same, Harry only managed half his plate before he began to fill sick. Suddenly, the chomping, chewing, and slurping going on around him began to turn his stomach. He pushed the rest of his plate away quickly, wondering how Dudley had ever managed to eat as much as he did. Not willing to let so much food go to waste, in case it didn't come again or they decided to kick him out after all, Harry discreetly filled up his napkin with all the sorts of things not likely to go bad. Luckily Ron was busy on his second plate, and no one else paid him enough mind to notice.

Now full, even overly full, his fears began to return. The feast was too good, really. Surely this must cost a great deal, money the Dursleys would never spend on him. Didn't they always go on about how he was such a burden? Harry was suddenly certain that a mistake had been made somewhere. This couldn't really be meant for him. For the millionth time that day, Harry wondered if he had gotten off at the right school. He reminded himself that his name was on the list. The kind man with the beard hadn't made him leave. Unless, of course, they just didn't want to do that in front of everybody. Maybe they were going to wait until everyone left the feast to tell him. Harry clutched his napkin of food closely.

“What was the deal about?” Ron asked him suddenly, “Why'd they skip you?” Other students around them turned to look at them curiously.

“They didn't think I was coming,” Harry answered softly, “I think my uncle forgot to fill something out.”

“Is that all?” the girl with bushy hair asked, “And they still let you be sorted?” She was sitting across the seat from them, no longer with the toad boy in tow.

Harry nodded his head, rather than explain that he chose where he went. Somehow, he didn't think the old man wanted other people to know. He had said it was highly unusual.

“I'm Hermione Granger, by the way,” the girl said, “I've been reading up about this school. I was a bit sceptical about coming here when my dad first suggested it; he just wanted me here because it was his school, and mum agreed of course because it's so close to home.” Harry blinked at her while she looked at him expectantly.

“I think I'm here because it was the easiest,” he said at last. Now Hermione blinked at him blankly.

“I don't see how it was easiest,” Ron said, “I'm only here on scholarship.” Then he turned red, as though he hadn't meant to say that.

“Well,” Hermione continued, “I finally agreed to go here when I read about their library. Did you know this school has one of the largest privately owned libraries in the country?”

“Er,” Harry answered, feeling more and more out of sorts. If this school was as expensive as it was beginning to sound, why in the world was he here? Dudley had made the place sound like a holding ground for future criminals, but this place wasn't like that at all.

“Library?” Ron asked, “Who cares about the library? Wait until you see the football pitch!”

“Football,” Hermione sniffed.

“It's really great, Harry,” Ron insisted, “What position do you play?”

“Er,” Harry said again. Even if he hadn't always been the shortest in his class, Dudley had made it rather impossible to get into sports.

“I play goalie,” Ron continued, not seeming to notice Harry's lack of response, “And Fred and George are wingmen on the house team.” Then the other boys around them started talking about their favourite players, leaving Harry totally clueless. Suddenly all conversations went silent. Harry turned his head to notice that the old man was standing once more before the podium.

“Welcome back to Stonewall High,” he began, “For those of you who don't know me, I am Headmaster Dumbledore. Very soon, you will be set free to do as you please, but do remember that classes begin tomorrow early, and curfew is at ten.” This was greeted by a few boos and hisses, but most students were too sated to respond. “First years,” he continued, “Follow your house prefects to find your dorms. You should all be provided with an orientation package; now would be a good time to begin to familiarize yourself with the campus. I will remind all of you that the woods on the edge of the campus grounds are completely forbidden, and all students should be inside the buildings by nine. For a complete set of rules and regulations, please consult your orientation package. If you have any questions, you may see your head of house. And now, I believe the dessert has arrived!” 

The dessert had indeed arrived, bringing with it a much more relaxed atmosphere. Some students were already standing, walking between the tables to speak with out of house friends and a few were even headed out the door. Harry was feeling much too full for dessert, and the sight of all that rich food made him feel slightly green. He wasn't the only one who couldn't seem to find room for it, and even Ron only managed a couple of cream filled puffs. Not wanting to miss out completely, Harry added a few of the smaller éclairs to his napkin. It wasn't long before Percy was calling up and down the Dorens table for the first years to follow him.

“It's not like he's the only prefect,” Ron mumbled, but he got up with the others to follow his brother. Harry was quite ready to leave; his stomach was really starting to bother him. Percy led them out of the hall through a smaller, more regular opening than those great doors they had first entered. They had only gone a short distance when Harry caught sight of a men's toilet and dove into it to be sick. He knelt shaking in the stall for a long moment, before going to the sink to wash out is mouth. When he came out again the other first years were no where to be seen. He only had a moment to panic, however, when he spotted Ron leaning against the wall.

“Are you all right?” he asked, “You look a bit green.”

“I'm fine,” Harry answered, staring at him. He had never had anyone wait on him before like that.

“We better catch up before Percy sees I've gone missing,” Ron said, and taking Harry's hand he pulled him along down the corridor. They went at a bit of a run in the last direction Ron had seen them go, but the group was long gone by then. Oddly enough, what had nearly sent Harry into a blind panic moments before didn't seem so bad when Ron was with him. Ron, determined to find the way, kept leading him down the long stone hallways at the same hurried speed, never mind that neither had any idea where they were going. This went on until they came very close to crashing directly into a man wearing black, billowing robes. In fact, they had to change directions so abruptly that Harry wound up sitting on the floor.

He looked up from where he sat, and up into the face of a pale, sharp faced man with oily black hair. For one second, Harry saw the black robes and recalled his dream about witches and magic and was slightly afraid. When the man's hand came down suddenly Harry flinched away, but he was only giving Harry a hand up.

“Do watch where you're going,” he said, his voice dripping with derision.

“Sorry professor,” Ron mumbled, making a move as though to go on around him but Harry hesitated.

“Excuse me, sir, do you know how to get to the Dorens rooms?” he asked nervously, his stomach aching worse than ever. Ron looked at him like he was insane and the man's stare was cold and intense.

“And why aren't you with the rest of your year?” he asked, his voice giving the impression that they were doing something horribly wrong.

“Harry was sick,” Ron answered quickly, perhaps hoping to gain some sympathy.

“Were you,” the man said, eyeing Harry intently. “Your stomach bothering you?” Harry nodded his head nervously.

“Very well,” the man said, and with a sweep of his robes he started down the hall in long strides. After he had gone a few yards away, he suddenly stopped, and without turning his head he said, “Well? Do you want me to show you or don't you?”

“Er...thank you,” Harry offered, and the two boys hurried to catch up. He led them swiftly down the halls and up some stairs, finally stopping before a set of double doors. Pushing them open he revealed a long room made up rather like a hospital. A young girl was already in there, looking even greener than Harry.

“This isn't the Dorens common room,” Ron complained, but the professor ignored them in favour of approaching a small, plump nurse.

“Severus,” the woman exclaimed at seeing him, “What brings you here?”

“An upset stomach,” he answered, gesturing back towards where Ron and Harry still hanged out in the doorway, “I thought it better that you take a look.”

“You brought him here for an upset stomach?” she asked, looking slightly bewildered. The professor rolled his eyes.

“He looks a bit scrawny, don't you think?” he asked, his voice deliberate and laced with meaning, “A bit jumpy too.” The nurse's expression changed to one of understanding, and then towards something fiercer, like anger but tinged with sadness.

“Another one of your serpents, is he?” she asked, motioning for Harry to come away from the door. Harry still didn't move, not quite certain how he had gone from searching for his new room to being ushered into the infirmary. 

“Dorens, actually,” the professor answered, eliciting another surprised expression from the nurse, “Lost Dorens; they may need a guide back to their common room afterwards.” That said, he made another sweeping turn and strode back out the double doors, leaving Harry and Ron to fend for themselves.

“Well, come along, dear,” the nurse said, motioning for Harry to hop onto a bed. Ron hovered next to him, looking slightly confused while the nurse requested Harry's name. As soon as she left to look up some records, he whispered to Harry in a hushed voice.

“That was Professor Snape!” he hissed, “I'm sure it was! He's the head of the serpent's house; everyone says he favours them in classes. What was he doing, walking us here? From what I've heard, he never helps anyone who isn't in his house.”

“You did say I was sick,” Harry reminded him, feeling sicker by the minute. He hated doctors of any sort, and he was almost certain the Dursleys would not approve of this visit. What if the school asked them for more money because of this? What if she wanted him to take his clothes off? He didn't like this at all. Ron didn't seem to notice his anxiety, too caught up in his own puzzle. Then the nurse was back, not looking particularly pleased.

“I don't seem to have your medical records, Harry,” she said, “Could they have been put under another name?”

“Er, the headmaster said some of my forms weren't filled out right,” Harry suggested. She tutted and made her way back into her small office.

“Percy will have noticed us gone by now,” Ron remarked as he slumped down onto a nearby bed, “I'll bet he tells mum.”

“It's my fault we got lost,” Harry pointed out, to which Ron cheered up slightly.

“Hey, yeah, she likes you. If I say you were really sick, she'll be glad I stayed to help.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, feeling slightly confused. Ron's mum liked him? She had only seen him for a few minutes, and most of that was his being a nuisance, not knowing where to go. Then the nurse was back again.

“There,” she said, “The headmaster himself is coming down to deal with this. We'll soon have you sorted out.”

Harry's stomach ache, which had all but disappeared while he listened to Ron ramble, returned full force. How much trouble would he be in if the headmaster himself had to come all the way here to deal with him? The nurse gave him a kindly smile and patted him on the back before turning to the other bed where the sick girl lay.


End file.
